"My niece," said the little lady, with a troubled look, "is in a
highly nervous condition to-day, Doctor Strong. She is--weeping. My
sister thought you might have--" she paused, as Miss Phoebe's crisp
and decided tones came up over the stairs.

"Little Vesta has got into a crying-spell, Doctor Strong. I want a
little valerian for her, please. I will go down and give it to her
myself, if you will hand it to my sister."

"In one moment, Miss Blyth," called Geoffrey, in his most composed
and professional tones. Then, seizing Miss Vesta's hand, he almost
dragged her into the room, and shut the door.

"Don't let her go!" he said, hurriedly, as he sought and poured out
the valerian. "Take it yourself, please, Miss Vesta, please! Miss
Blyth will--that is, she is less gentle than you; if your niece is
in such a condition as--as you say, you are the one to soothe her.
Will you go? Please do."

"Dear Doctor Strong," said Miss Vesta, panting a little, "are you--I
fear you are unwell yourself. You alarm me, my dear young friend."

"I am a brute," said Geoffrey; "a clumsy, unfeeling brute!" He
kissed her little white wrinkled hand; then, still holding it, paused
to listen. The voice came up again from the place of torture.

"What shall I do? Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?"

He pressed the glass in Miss Vesta's hand. "There! there! a